Halmeoni spends weeks preparing for our summer visits. She goes to the wet markets to buy the choicest steaks and the roundest plums. She tends to her makeshift garden, harvesting minari and burdock, her back folded like origami paper as she hunches over the balcony greens. She lays short ribs and daikon, apple pears and gingko nuts into a ceramic pot to brew Galbijjim, skimming the fat and impurities off the surface each morning. She does this for days, and this work is not easy. No, this is a labor of love.

Once, there was a village that sat atop of a small mountain, or a big hill, depending on which villager you asked. The village was little but lush, and the villagers, though not rich in jade or gold, were immensely proud of their rice paddies, which shimmered green in summer and gold in autumn.